


THORNS

by anaisangel



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaisangel/pseuds/anaisangel
Summary: Thorns;Denoting sin, sorrow and hardship; together with the rose, it represents pain and pleasure.
Relationships: Negan (Walking Dead)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. Vicissitude

_"There was never a genius without a tincture of madness."_

― Aristotle

* * *

She wasn't much of a drinker, even before the apocalypse. The thought of the amber liquid sitting before her made her internally cringe, like she could taste it's bitter bite on her tongue just by staring at it. 

Some far off memory, when the world was normal and the dead stayed dead, of her sitting around a bonfire in the fields out west came to mind; surrounded by acres of tall, shrouding cornstalks and the midnight sky, sixteen and eager to experience teenage rebellion at it's finest. She had twirled the cap off a bottle of Jack Daniels with the grace of a seasoned drinker, shooing away clouds of thought that read in comic sans: _Impostor, I've never drank a day in my life, but they don't know that!_ And then she brought the bottle's narrow rim to her lips, felt it _clack_ against her front teeth, and threw it back without a second thought. It seared the porous taste-buds on her tongue, slithered down her throat like a dragon on fire, it's claws digging into the fleshy tunnel as it immediately decided to make an exit through the entrance. It came up amber colored still, not even making it to the checkpoint where it'd mix with all the other _unsavory_ goodies in her belly, burning all the way up as it did down. 

That liquor in the glass before her was a stark reminder of why she was never much of a drinker. In that moment, however - fearful sweat building between her shoulder blades and under her armpits and the backs of her knees - it appeared to her as a saving grace, as a crutch to carry her through those torturous moments she was soon to face. 

Three ice cubes floated atop the lake of tawny brown, chilling the glass and erupting beads of cold sweat on the outside of it's surprisingly clean circumference. Lucy Williams was by no means a coward (so she liked to think, and not a bad thing it was, living in the world she did) but that amber liquid beckoned her with the promise of a haze, one that might palliate the overwhelming hum of blood in her ears and the uneasy sense of dread that swelled in her stomach.

She thought: _maybe if I throw up, they'll think me sick and toss me right out the front gate. Or, more probable, they'll put me out of my misery, because sick nowadays is a whole different ball-game, sweetheart. They'll chain me to the fence as a part of the decor and go about their days like nothin' happened._

Her hand had outstretched on it's on volition, grimy fingers specked with mud and the blackened hue of dried blood, splayed like reaching for an idol on a podium center stage of a booby-trapped temple that looked suspiciously like an old warehouse office. Lucy faltered a brief moment, tugged her sweat salted lower lip between her teeth, then pushed forward in her lean and wrapped those dirty fingers around the glass. It was cool against her palm, the chilled perspiration seeping into her dry, cracked skin like a salve. Holding it with both hands, she looked down into the clear well filled with burning liquid, and pondered on if she should drink it or not. 

As casual and innocuous as could be, she heard it; _whistling_. It struck her as menacing, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. She hadn't heard the door open, hadn't heard footsteps, and willed upon herself to resist the urge to twist in her seat and take a peak. Instead, she gripped the glass tighter and waited, watching the ice cubes bobbing around with a ripple in the amber lake as she trembled with an almost imperceptible movement. Then came the footsteps; heavy and sure against the laminate floor, followed with a rustle of movement, followed once more, and with finality, the solid thunk of what she knew with almost-certainty to be a barbwire encrusted baseball bat. The slam of it jolted her, jostled the ice cubes in their safe little world in the glass, and she closed her eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. 

It occurred to her that she was essentially hiding from him in plain sight; _I can't see him, he can't see me._ Childish _, absolutely._ Innate _, oh, most definitely._ But the way he chuckled, that sound tumbling into the palpable air too much like that of a monster hiding under your bed, waiting for you to stick your foot out on the long stretch, gave merit to her juvenile reaction. In context, it was a terrifying sound, and as she waited for the proverbial ankle grab (baseball bat), to be swept into the underworld beneath her bed (barbwire lodging into the back of her skull), she thought of how there was a time when she thought herself _brave_. 

"What's the matter, doll? Not even going to say fucking _thank you_ for that whiskey? It's not really somethin' you'd find lying around out there in that big ol' shitstorm of a world. Or, what's _left_ of it." 

His voice, profanity and arrogance aside, held a not unpleasant baritone timbre to it, an underlying gravel that alluded to maturity. Without looking toward it's source, she imagined a burly, fifty-something-year old man with an appearance of a stereotypical lumberjack beard - although the plaid was already out of the visual; she vaguely remembered leather. 

He approached, footsteps solid and startlingly quick, causing a hitch of her breath and a tense of her spine, and then the solid smack of a hand on her right shoulder. Immediately after the unsolicited yelp she gave was a flourish of regret and self scolding. 

_What's that thing they used to say, about encountering pumas or bears up in the mountains?_ Don't show fear. _Well, go ahead and check that off on the list of things the_ courageous _Lucy Williams has brilliantly failed at._

He kept his hand there, weighing like a leather bound anvil, curling his fingers into the hard bone as though in emphasis for his next remark. 

"Why don't you fucking look at me when I'm talking to you?" And he said it in such a way that sounded benign, despite the hard swear, despite the dull ache of fingers digging into her shoulder, and for a fleeting moment it was like he was giving her an option. Then she remembered, and knew she had no choices here, not anymore. 

Lucy absently straightened her spine with an audible inhale, steeling herself for the moment to come, to face the man who had easily, and worse, _eagerly_ killed her friends. Angling her head back, she peered at him through the veil of her overgrown bangs, taking in the features of a monster in the guise of a man. What caught her abhorrent gaze first was his eyes; tawny and distinct, glimmering with something akin to mirth, and she knew immediately that he was enjoying this, this drawn out, torturous introduction. The thought made her bristle, ire building up smoke to obscure the fear that licked at her insides. 

He didn't quite fit the look of her envisioned persona moments earlier, but there were similarities. He _was_ older, but tall, lean and lanky and no doubt corded with sinewy muscle. He wasn't the bear, big and intimidating - he was the puma, lithe and quick. His hair was slicked back and dark, grey feathered in at his temples and speckled the short hairs of his beard. Deep dimples punctured his cheeks with a toothy grin, a blithe amusement momentarily shadowed the wickedness he exuded, and she was reminded of a snake then. Sly, quick, _deadly_ and, most often than not, deceiving. This snake had it's fangs out often, taking the form of a faded brown, barbwire encrusted baseball bat. 

"Well _look_ at you." He mused, hot breath billowing down her face and neck. 

He was too close for comfort, and like she would if she were face to scaled snout with a Cobra, she held her breath and stilled. His close proximity allowed for a detailed view; his eyes were a warm brown, deceptively kind and bordered with crows feet that crinkled together as he grinned. A row of straight, white teeth contrasting with the tan hue of his weathered skin. 

"Now, what the _fuck_ is a pretty little lady like you doing, stealing shit from _me?"_ There was a contemptuous way that he spoke, belittling and it cracked Lucy's stoic facade just enough to flash anger in her verdant eyes. She thought it impossible, but his grin stretched further, and she dropped her gaze down to avoid looking at him - then he chuckled, and she realized that she hated the sound of it. 

"You've got fire in your eyes - I like that." He said, his hand moving deftly from her shoulder to reach down toward her face. 

She flinched away, attention flitting from his gloved fingers up to him with a faint curl of her lip in disgust. He tutted, tongue clicking off the roof off his mouth and it was all to reminiscent of a child being scolded. It added fuel to that fire of hers, her fingers turning ivory with her tightened grasp of the cup she still held, like holding the reins of her anger. Then, he firmly grabbed her chin, gloved thumb pressing in the divot beneath her lower lip as he jerked her head back to him. 

His smile was gone, replaced with a faint knit of his thick brows and a straight lipped contemplation. She wasn't sure which she disliked more - his toothy grin, or this intimidating glare. 

"What's your name, dollface?" He asked. 

Lucy swallowed thickly, realizing with another wave of self-loathing that she was trapped in his cage - fear and anger duked it out inside her, and it looked like the former was making a miraculous comeback. Coaxed with a consequential narrowing of his gaze, she finally spoke. 

"Lucy." 

It was minute, barely noticeable, but his grip on her chin loosened and something quick and fleeting softened the hardness of his hazel eyes, as though momentarily struck. As quick as it had come, it was gone; the corners of his lips quirked upward as he released her and stood straight, his lean stature taking on a lofty curve as he leaned back. He eyed her a short moment that felt like an eternity, looking like a man appraising a used car in some dealership lot. 

"Well, _Lucy_. I was just thinking of what the fuck to do with you! Sneaking into one of _my_ trucks, taking _my_ supplies? That's a big fuckin' no-no." He rounded the chair which she sat, lazy strides of his long legs. "But I don't need to tell you that, right?" 

Lucy's attention was drawn to the the bat; nestled in the crook where broad shoulder meets neck. The barbwire that encircled it glimmered in the dull florescent lights about them, like it was winking at her. 

"You gonna drink that or not, princess?" He lifted the bat, twinkling in that mischievous _deadly-but-pretty_ type way before pointing it's rounded end at her face. 

The way he moved with it was like it's mahogany mass had become an extension of himself; controlled but loose. Lucy had genuinely forgotten she was holding a glass of what she assumed was whiskey, the man before her stealing whatever attention she had to offer in her muddled mind. She glanced down, the ice cubes had melted down, their square uniformity diminished and looking like drifting, jagged pieces of pearlescent rock. 

"Don't be fucking rude." He tacked on, as though she had taken longer to comply than he was happy with. She was getting the impression this might be the last time she'd taste that burning dragon, and maybe this time she'll conquer the beast and keep it down - lord knows she needs it's strength. 

She brought the rim to her lips, it clacked against her front teeth like that bottle of whiskey did nine years ago, and then she tipped the glass. She guessed right - it was whiskey, and it burned her insides just like the first time, but this time it made it to it's destination, searing all the way down into the pit of her belly where it bloomed with a warmth like she had swallowed a miniature sun. 

"I have an idea." He proclaimed. 

Lucy looked at him beneath her bangs, catching the way he eyed her intently. Attention flickering across her face; from her lips on the glass, to her eyes, down for a fleeting second, then back up. The thought of pumas and snakes came back, _predator scoping prey_ , pushing a sense of fresh unease through her. He shifted in place, twisting himself at the waist and laying the barbed beauty down on the desk with a strange sort of reverence. Facing her again with a casual lean, he braced his hands on the edge and crossed one long leg over the other. 

"How's about you and I get to know each other a little bit? Who knows, we might have a lot in common. Lemme start - " He brought a hand up and gestured between the two of them before laying it on his chest with a grin. 

"My name is Negan. I'm a pretty _nice_ fucking guy, not tryin' to toot my own horn. So nice, I am _in fact_ willing to offer you a _fine-ass_ deal in light of you so rudely attempting to steal my shit. Now, I will give you a little warning - this is _not_ a job offer you wanna turn your nose up at." He leaned forward, all white smiles and beguilement, "Let's just say the job market nowadays, well, it's a dog-eat-dog fuckin' world out there, honey." 

Lucy was brimming with anger now; maybe it was the condescension of his words, the liquor that still warmed her stomach, that dragon lending it's fire, or maybe it was the laden insinuation of his 'job offer' (there was no mistaking the look in his eyes, or the blatant perusal of her slender body), but she leaned into that feeling just as she leaned forward to place her glass of liquid courage back on the desk. 

She sat back against the chair, crossing her arms over her chest and sneering at the self-satisfied smirk that tugged on Negan's lips. 

"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" She spit the words with venom, willed her verdant gaze to be sharp as daggers, and shoved down that weak-kneed manifestation of fear that timidly spoke up in the back of her mind. Negan's mouth cinched in an effort to keep straight-faced, corners curling upwards before he erupted in a deep laugh, the sound resonating through the 'office' and jarring her. 

Lucy wasn't sure if she felt more furious or embarrassed - for surely she didn't look at all the part of someone who would say something like _that_ , to a man like _him_. Negan bowed backwards with an exaggerated holler of _'woo!',_ beforeswiping his forefinger underneath his eye. Then he leaned forward, bringing himself suddenly close. 

"There's that _fucking_ fire! Sweetheart, there is just _something_ about you." He announced, keeping his intonation sharp and punctuated. 

Negan had placed his hands on either armrest of her chair, leveling his gaze with hers and shadowing her in the broadness of him. How she managed to keep herself together and bite back will forever remain a wonder. 

"You're a fucking murderer - your opinion of me is the last thing I fucking care about. Not to mention, _a class-A prick."_ She tacked on that last bit on a fiery whim, fear running around flailing it's arms in the back of her mind as anger took the reins. 

Negan didn't appear the slightest bit fazed. His grin was wicked, all pearly whites and deep dimples as he swept his tongue across his lower lip - amused. He looked amused. 

"Yeah - this is going to be a fucking _blast_." 


	2. Quietus à la Lucille

_“Do not be afraid; our fate_  
_Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”_  
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

* * *

Bryce had heard the rumble of motors before the other three, and despite his keen sense of hearing and sharp intuition, he was the first to die. 

In her modest pack, she held the necessities; morsels of stale crackers and a few cans of soup, the labels peeling or long gone (opening up a silvery can nowadays was a guessing game), a dented metal water bottle, a flashlight with two precious batteries, and a change of clothes two sizes too big in the shirt, one size too small in the pants. Although not detrimental to her survival, there was also a small, gold picture frame with since passed smiles and a rolled up calendar with the theme of _'Furry Friends'._ Thanks to the help of _Duke the Corgi,_ half hidden with his stout little legs in a mass of red and yellow leaves, she knew it was late October. 

As Lucy began stuffing her belongings back in her pack, she caught the quick movement of Bryce beside her, perking up in a way that reminded her of a deer catching wind of a predator. In the shadows she could see the way his deep set eyes widened, overgrown tufts of dirty blonde curls bouncing and falling back in place when he whipped his head to the side and peered off into the unknown. 

Ellen, the newest recruit of their rag-tag team, was an elderly woman with white hair and a deceiving spryness. She opened her thin lips to speak, her first vowel of _ah_ (are we in trouble? are you alright?) cut short when Bryce raised a hand to quiet her. Beside Lucy, Seth shifted on the leaves, more than likely posed to make a mad dash. Despite being the youngest in their group, undoubtedly the fittest and equal in strength to the forty-three year old Bryce, Seth was almost always the first to make it to safety. Lucy thought, if Seth had a black tail to match the mop of stringy hair atop his head, it would be perpetually shoved between his legs. 

Then, like an approaching beast the rumble of engines in the distance grew louder, headlights leaked through the slits between the trees and glowed in the surrounding fog and Lucy suddenly remembered watching a movie before the world went to shit - aptly named _'The War of the Worlds'._ Those giant, tripod machines that bellowed out their deafening horns, harrowing and she swore it was dread, _the end_ , in the form of sound. The engines gave her that same feeling, the headlights like the one glowing eye of the three legged monstrosities. 

"Lucy -" Bryce scrambled to his feet quick, his expression manic in the night, "Run." 

Seth and Ellen were hastily gathering what little of their belongings they had, shoving what they could into their packs and Lucy hesitated, attention flicking from Bryce to the other two in a haze of distress. 

"What? I'm not leaving you guys, not after - "

"We've already lost enough people. Get out of here, find somewhere safe!" Bryce cut her off with a fierce growl, flinging his bag over his shoulder and turning his attention to Seth and Ellen. 

"It was only a matter of time." Ellen said, almost solemnly. 

Seth was a sick pallor in the moonlight, "We need to go, all of us." He whispered harshly, and then the hollering began. 

Whooping and shouting like madmen, sounding almost primal and crazed, and combined with the resounding echo of engines that was all it took to have the group high-tail in a mad dash. 

Lucy found it in herself to not look back, letting the chill October air whip at her face like mother nature was slapping her with her own harsh hand - _hurry up, little Lucy!_ \- and the leaves and twigs crunched beneath her feet, a trickster branch nearly snagging the toe end of her boot as she forced her way up through the forest. She staggered, caught her balance, and then she felt the weight of a firm hand slap down on her shoulder. The engines were so close she could feel the vibration beneath her feet. 

"Hide - don't talk -" Bryce panted out, shutting down Lucy as she opened her mouth to detest, "please, for my sake. _Fucking hide._ " 

Lucy had known Bryce for fifteen of her twenty-five years, and not once had she ever heard the mans voice crack, not until then. So she listened. Catching a quick glimpse of the other two, Seth whipping his head around fraught and Ellen unnervingly serene, she flung her arms out and wrapped them around Bryce's stout torso and embraced him quick. 

Bryce breathed against her hair, "Stay safe, Lucy." Then he shoved her away from him, and she pivoted in place and ran, the forest morphing into a fever-dream as tears blotted her vision. 

As the engines reached the crescendo of a roar, and her heart thumped wildly against her sternum as though banging on the wall with discontent, she threw herself into a thicket not forty feet from the small clearing her comrades had been. The ground was a solid wave of hills, fallen tree branches and shaggy bushes obscuring part of her vision, but she saw enough. 

The convoy of trucks had circled the trio, all headlights directed to their single point and creating a glowing mass that almost appeared otherworldly. The excited hollering had simmered down, vehicle doors opening and closing with a clatter of hollow slams. Then came the shadows, ambling in front of the headlights and there were so many of them the florescent beams had divided into a multitude of small slivers between a clamoring throng of bodies - bodies that, if the shadows were telling enough, held a plethora of guns. 

The rumbling of engines made deciphering difficult, but she watched with muted terror as Bryce, Ellen and Seth succumbed to their knees. Ellen's hair glowed in the light like a halo of ivory lace, and then the voices picked up again, an auditory wave that sounded morbidly excited, bodies moving around in an eager hustle to shed blood. Above all of the noise a single door slammed shut, and like a gavel on wood, the jury fell silent. 

Lucy couldn't see well enough to make out faces, or even the individual body shapes (they all appeared to meld together in a big mass of murderous intent) but whoever had stepped out last also stood out; sauntering out of the crowd that parted like the red sea, the headlights shone at his back and outlined him with an eerie white glow. He was wearing a leather jacket, the way it's slick surface captured the light told her that, but more pressing was the sparkling glint of metal beside his head - a baseball bat wrapped in barbwire laid idly against his broad shoulder. There was something telling about his arrival, as all fell silent and rapt when he began loftily pacing the small line from Seth on the left, to Ellen on the right. Lucy could make out gestures, a watered down voice that somehow managed to leak it's way through the raucous engines that still hummed around them, but what that voice was saying remained a mystery. When the rounded edge of the baseball bat lifted from his shoulder she felt her stomach flip, waffling still as he used it's lethal mass to emphasize whatever point he was making. 

And made it he did; stopping in his casual walk before Bryce, the baseball bat raised above his head, she could see two hands wrapped around it's narrow hilt before coming down with enough force to send a sickening _crack_ through the symphony of engines. It felt like she had been punched in the gut, nausea sweeping through her and coalescing with the overwhelming terror that was firing a frenzy in her brain. The acrid taste of bile burned her throat, and she quickly smacked both hands over her mouth and screwed her eyes shut, willing herself not to look as a repetitious crack of the baseball bat meeting hard bone echoed through the forest. 

It continued for what felt like an eternity. When the repose struck she was trembling in a cold sweat, crying silently and breathing shallowly through her mouth, small plumes of white dissipating in the chilled Autumn air. She needn't look to know; they were dead. It was a little while longer before she heard the vehicle doors again, the engines revving up ostentatiously, the hollers. And as quick as they had come, they were gone - it seemed to be nothing more than a quick pit-stop for them, but for Lucy Williams, it was the duplication of losing everything. 

She stayed where she was for hours. Be it the fear of them returning, the staggering sense of loss that gripped her whole being, or just plain old exhaustion. She contemplated returning to the scene of the crime, maybe checking for run-off supplies, but she had inclination they left nothing but mangled corpses in their wake. So instead, she waited. And when the waiting grew tiresome, and the pang of morbid curiosity grew too uncomfortable, she stood from her little nest, not sparing a glance toward the clearing, and walked away. 

Hollow was not the right word. Yes, there was that great big looming monster of grief that stepped on her heels, but empty was inapt. She was boiling beneath the surface, red blooming in her vision, and beside all that hunger for retribution there was the acknowledgement that she was alone, singular, and no amount of anger would be strong enough to give her what she wanted. 

* * *

It felt like a myriad of gentle suns had made their home along the plane of her face; warmth that dotted in through the remaining leaves of the tree she had perched in for the night awoke her. Even in the midst of the end of the world, humidity never took a break in the south, the air damp and warm and oddly comforting, and as her eyes fluttered open and she stared up through the leaves, the great big sky all blue and devoid of any clouds, she thought she could stay there forever. 

It was silent, uncomfortably quiet in her world now. Seth was not there to make his juvenile jokes anymore. He was not all that funny, but Lucy laughed because no one else did. Ellen, and her wistful aura of all-knowing age was not there to give anecdotes to the days of the past; the _real_ past, when Lucy wasn't born yet and the dead stayed dead. And Bryce, who she had known since she was ten years old, was no longer there with his fatherly presence and stoic leadership, guiding them through the apocalypse with a bravery Lucy wished she could parallel. 

She quickly sniffed up the wet that threatened her nose, bringing her hand up and pushing her ebony bangs from her forehead as she rubbed at her swollen eyes with her palms. She felt defeated in every sense of the world, broken down and utterly alone. For a fleeting moment she contemplated throwing in the towel, calling it quits and finding the quickest route out of this fucked iteration of the world. 

Then she remembered Bryce again - and she knew he would never even entertain the thought. And Seth, who was two years younger than her, an inherent coward who still had the guts to keep his feet planted on this toxic mortal plane. And _Ellen_ , old, weathered Ellen with her grey hair and her arthritis, trudging through to the next decrepit town over with a strength she had never appreciated until now. Lucy Williams was by no means a coward, and with a few exceptions, neither were her friends - _her family._

She took a deep breath, let the warm air fill her lungs, and then she shifted on her branch and let her legs dangle for a moment. From her perch, the drop down looked imposing. 

She tensed her body and slid off the edge.   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on early Negan (Lucille, leather jackets, mildly unhinged), and does not venture into current canon Negan. Let's all hop in this time machine and back to the TWD-verse where Negan is a class A prick and we loved him anyways!
> 
> Feedback and concrit is so greatly appreciated, thank you so much!


	3. MERCY FOR THE LOST

_“My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”_

― Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

* * *

She dug the knife into the tree, carving a distinguishable gash into the bark. Bryce had instilled this survival trait into her on camping trips in the Dixon State Forest, seemingly a lifetime ago. Her father had told her she was abusing the trees, because _'don't you know, Lu? Trees are alive, too',_ she remembered giving a downcast pout and a piteous, _'yes sir',_ but when he turned and headed back to join Lucy's mother, Janice, by their makeshift bonfire, she had the blade up to the tree's bark in a rush, and sometimes she would carve pictures. Hearts, stars, little stick figures that went on to live happy lives without the fear of other stick figures coming to eat them alive. 

Lucy didn't carve any cute pictures this time. She made quick work of the gashes, making them deep but not dallying any longer than need be. She'd been walking for hours, the exact amount of time lost on her, but given the suns low hanging position in the sky and the count of trees abused being somewhere in the upper twenties, it was getting late. During her involuntary nature hike she had encountered two walkers; she made quick work of them, although the second one found it hard to stay dead. 

The irony of it was not lost on her. 

Lucy let out a sigh, acknowledging the long shadows and cool air as the sun threatened to depart beneath the horizon. She would need to find shelter, preferably somewhere high, and as she slowed her pace to a leisurely walk to peruse the trees for a suitable perch, she heard the faintest sound of growling. 

Her hearing wasn't supernatural, but the perpetual pressure of survival had honed it over the last few years; she pivoted in place quick, crouching down and steadying herself with her fingertips just barely touching the humid dirt beneath her, verdant gaze narrowed and hyper focused as she scanned the forest with a panoramic sweep. 

To the right of her field of vision she saw movement, the staggered and lumbering gait of the undead was unmistakable. It was off in the distance (and _it_ from what she gathered - it's scalp was missing, skin slipping down the side of it's face like a partially peeled orange, a walking skeleton in an over-sized, muddied yellow t-shirt. Guess it's gender all she'd like, that doesn't change the fact that it was coming right at her.) Curling her fingers around the hilt of her buck knife, she shifted in her crouched stance and debated on laying in wait or charging pointy end first. The arrival of four more walkers had made the decision for her. She was competent enough with her knife, but even she knew this battle was a lost cause. 

With as much stealth as she could muster, she began shuffling backwards, changing her directory and backtracking toward her last slashed tree to avoid them. Her fingers skimmed the ground as she moved, heel coming down on an angled rock that staggered her balance. She caught herself on a particularly dry, thick branch. The _snap_ seemed amplified in the still forest, and with a startling amount of quickness their decaying heads whipped in her direction in unison - her blood ran cold. 

Flight response kicked her in high gear as she gripped the knife tight and pushed herself from the ground and into a full on sprint. Their snarls and growls grew louder, vocalizing their insatiable hunger at the sight of food. Her boots met the blanket of crisp, fallen leaves in rapid succession, weaving her way through the forest as the trees grew closer together, hopes that their one track minds would be hindered by the thick grove kept her going. 

Lucy kept her ears keen as she panted, leaping over a fallen log and scarcely clearing it's protruding branches before landing with a crouch. It was silent for a moment, her lungs burned with the chilled air of dusk and the lack of oxygen as she kept her ragged pants shallow. Daring a glance, she looked over her shoulder and saw them, lumbering their way over natures obstacle course with a slowness that was as telling as their appearance - they were rotting out of their skulls, clothes mildewed and worn; they had been dead for a long time, and for that she was silently grateful among the danger. They were slower, dumber. Muscles and brain matter and whatever residual cognizance of humanity had dissolved over time. 

Although they were less of an urgent threat, a threat they still were. Lucy took a steadying breath and crept her way forward, keeping herself low and paying mind to the placement of each trepid step. She hadn't paid attention to the trees in her dash, a quick glance around to find that there are no distinguishable gashes on any of them. 

_Great. Not only are you creeping around a pack of walkers, but you're lost, too._

She exhaled through pursed lips, willing her breath and her heart to simmer as she crept onward. The snarls behind her had calmed a bit as well - but Lucy kept her self tense, threading herself through the trees as they had grown close enough to obscure the distance, caging her in their way. She held her cautious demeanor long after the growls had subsided, and the forests own noises had replaced the silence. The stridulation of crickets chirped around her, darkness casting it's opaque blanket over the woodland and with it a chill in the air. 

Her breath plumed from her lips in translucent clouds, evaporating in the air she exhaled shakily. She gave a small noise of dismay, leaning back and letting the stocky tree she had been crouched beside catch her. Like she was in a trance, she watched her breath dissipate in the air, hypnotic and wispy, recognition to the night prior. The memories were still fresh in her mind, playing through like a grainy horror movie with the fog of the headlights and the obscuring thicket that surrounded her; engines like the end, hollering, wild and unhinged. The repetitious _crack_ of the baseball bat, the sour burn of bile in her throat. She could taste it now, rising upwards with the uncomfortable twist in her gut. Whether she had seen a gruesome chunk of Bryce's head flail in the air on the uptake or it was her morbid imagination conjuring the imagery, she wasn't entirely sure - she keeled over and heaved, wrapping an arm around her stomach and planting a hand in the damp soil to steady herself. 

Her fingers curled, minuscule grains of dirt embedding themselves beneath her nails as she gagged, screwed her eyes shut, and vomited. It charred her throat on the way up, in that moment a never-ending nausea that churned her stomach and forced what little she had into a pellucid puddle on the forest floor. Hot tears streaked her muddied cheeks, swept away with disdain and quickly replaced with new tracks. It wasn't just the loss of autonomy, the natural instinct to tear up when your stomach rejects it's contents, but the loss of control in all aspects; spiraling into a full-blown crisis. She sniffed, it lodged whatever bile had snuck it's way into her nasal passage to the back of her throat, where she promptly coughed and spit it out. 

Sitting back on her haunches, she curled the fabric of her sleeve over her hand and wiped her mouth, not bothering with her eyes as it seemed to be a moot point; she began sobbing, keeping her noises as quiet as possible, her lithe frame trembling with the amount of pent up emotion she capped. Absently, she wondered of the possibility of insanity in the not distant future. What has to happen to a person for them to regress into a debilitating paranoia or detachment from reality - something like having your second-hand family pummeled to death while you watched from the sidelines. Insanity didn't seem so far-fetched in that moment, for surely in a world like that it was as common as the cold. 

* * *

Sleep was lost on her that night. 

A tree not far from where she had ejected her stomach contents and the contemplation of once more throwing in the mortal towel, she had scouted out another tree. Climbing to the upper-most branch which would support her weight, she leaned against the trunk of it and stared out into the distance. The small flock of walkers that had chased her from her path seemed to have moved on, and although she kept herself alert with the consolation that she was only looking out for herself, sleep never took her under - and it wasn't entirely for vigilance. 

She thought of them again, refrained from the gruesome details no matter how strongly it's morbid imagery pulled at her, and instead relived the good times - _at least, as good as post-apocalyptic good could get._ She smiled to herself, cried softly in her high solace, and watched with exhaustion in her soul as the sun slowly made it's ascent via the horizon. 

From her perch and with the golden light that appeared deceivingly promising of a good day (like in the movies, where the morning starts with sunshine and the birds chirp and they step out into their front porch with an exaggerated stretch and a broad smile, _'another beautiful day!'),_ she could see something off in the distance. Beyond the end of the forest, which she was also grateful to see, was a mass clearing. From her makeshift lookout she watched the grated blades of a windmill lazily spin, protruding like a dilapidated flower from a wooden base. 

Shifting on her branch, she peered out with something alike to hope, maybe an offshoot - desperation. She'd been alone for less than two days, had already fled for her life and contemplated the definition of insanity. Lucy liked to believe she didn't need anyone anymore, not with the hefty price she had paid with Bryce and the others, but the idea of people, _living people_ , overshadowed her pride. 

It didn't, however, cloud her judgement. 

Bryce was a strong leader, a fatherly presence, and oftentimes passed on his knowledge in such a way it seemed nonchalant. Two years before they had encountered a compound, the hustle and bustle of civility could be heard from outside the makeshift walls which were pieced together with a concoction of tires, slabs of rotting wood, and a few cars. As excitement and relief flooded Lucy and Seth (this was before Ellen had stumbled upon them), Bryce had halted their movements and instead decided to survey the situation before waltzing in with begging hands. 

Like a march of ants in their uniformity, they crept along the outside of the perimeter in a line, steadily closing in on a section of the wall where a large gap allowed a peek between a splintered citrine door wedged between two towering stacks of _Goodyear_ tires. Upon closer inspection the wall was of mediocre quality at best; there were gaps all along it's jagged edges, and as Bryce carefully glanced through the passage of one such gap, he quickly, and with a startling amount of urgency, motioned Lucy and Seth back. They had retreated back into the surrounding town with haste, and even with a distance, Bryce had been adamant they keep going through the night. 

Lucy never saw what was beyond the wall, and she had inclination to be glad for that - Bryce was never one to be fretful, to show any sign of alarm, but that day had been one of only two times he did so. She supposed it was his reaction that had ingrained the idea into her - to harbor a cautiousness even in light of salvation. 

She thought of that moment as she crept out from the edge of the woods, keeping herself low and obscured with the diminishing thicket that bordered the treeline. With just a fleeting glance she could see that this wall was of much better quality, and from her position she could make out what appeared to be a watchtower to the right of her position, a single person sitting with their legs dangling over the edge. Lucy couldn't make out much else, but noted that they were peering off the opposite way of her. She continued her reconnaissance, bordering the compound until she came to the dilapidated houses that lined either side of a road that led straight to a large, metal gate. She contemplated entering the house she was using as cover, her hand steadied against it's once white paneled wall as she kept herself low. Hung on the sheet-metal of the wall beside it was a garish, white sign reading: 

WELCOME TO THE 

**ALEXANDRIA**

**SAFE ZONE**

MERCY FOR THE LOST

VENGEANCE FOR THE PLUNDERERS 

Lucy shifted, contemplating the sign. Straight to the point, self-explanatory, but something about it made her feel uneasy. _Would Bryce have trusted this?_ She wasn't entirely sure, but her own intuition gave hesitance. She worried her lower lip between her teeth as she stared at the sign like it would change before her eyes, like the letters would rearrange themselves into a promise instead of vague clemency and thinly veiled threat. Muffled noises seemed to waft through the air, humanity in sound. 

There was risk in everything these days - risk in _living_. She had no idea who the people beyond the wall were, whether their intentions were truly altruistic or something more sinister. The sign had appeared innocuous enough, but if it were a trap, that would be the bait on the hook. She shifted again, the leaves beneath her feet crinkling like paper as she ran her hand over her mouth, collecting the dampness of sweat despite the chill October air. She tasted the salt of it when she licked her lips absently. 

_Risk your life out here, all by your lonesome. Risk your life by knocking on that gate. It's all a risk - the real toss-up is which one would end the game quicker._

The rumble beneath her feet, distant and subtle as it was, was enough to jolt Lucy's borderline emaciated frame and push a wave of innate fear through her - she was immediately reminded of the horde of killers in the forest. She shuffled further back, hiding behind the house while poking her head around the corner just enough to see a convoy pull in. Trucks, SUV's, and a straggler of a rusted out U-Haul had weaved it's way through the perpetually standstill traffic that dotted the desolate road leading up to the gate. 

A small number of the vehicles had their occupants climb out, a cacophony of metal against metal and asphalt under shoes as they congregated at the front gate. It appeared they were visitors as well, as the gates didn't open upon their arrival. Her verdant gaze wandered from the small group, over the tops of the trucks which gleamed like metallic glass beneath the suns unforgiving rays, to the U-Haul at the tail end of the convoy. A truck like that these days either held more people, or supplies. 

Then, with an eerie familiarity, a single door slammed shut and the tame commotion that rambled through the throng of visitors fell silent. From the large, lifted charcoal Dakota leading the convoy stepped out a single man, his visage obscured by the blinding light reflecting off the multiple vehicles, his attention faced intently at the metal gate as he casually ambled toward it. Lucy could make out the broadness of him, the height of him, his black hair which gleamed as though wet, and the unmistakable strut of a man in possession of power. 

What caught Lucy's attention more was the individual glimmer that shone from his leather clad shoulder. A crown of barbwire, spiraling down the shaft of a sleek wooden baseball bat, with it an overwhelming sense of nausea and dread. Revelation at who these people were, what they were capable of was enough to have Lucy hightail it the way she came - she'd rather deal with the undead. But the crunch of soles against crumbling asphalt deterred her for a fleeting moment, long enough to see the sliding metal door of the U-Haul hoisted upwards, revealing the equivalence of a treasure trove in apocalypse terms. 

A plethora of supplies filled about half the container, pushed towards the back (or front, if you're looking for semantics) in a haphazard organization of wooden crates. From what she could see it ranged from dried goods (boxes of nonperishable food and dented metals cans), to weaponry. There was no mistaking the barrel of what she saw to be a Remington 700 protruding from a crate, buried beneath a handful of other indistinguishable guns. 

It occurred to her in the next moment, when the truck and all it's precious contents were left without guard as the man wandered back around it's flank opposite of her, that perhaps survival and revenge could coincide. Granted, stealing a handful of supplies from these men was without a doubt the most insignificant attempt at revenge she could probably muster, but If these people were regular tourists of the compound, it was not somewhere she wanted to settle down - and the idea of taking something, even something as fleeting as a Remington 700 from that _leather-clad-bat-wielding-bastard_ , would give her at least _some_ semblance of revenge. 

_Not to mention a shotgun is a helluva lot more efficient than a dulled buck knife._

When the metal gate slid open, a raucous sound that set her teeth on edge, she made her move. Skirting across the remnants of what was probably a luscious yard a few years ago, Lucy kept herself low and her attention focused. The gate thudded to a halt on it's tracks, the sound of talking, casual in their lilt, was heard through the rapid hum of blood in her ears. Boots made contact with asphalt, crunching in a way that seemed deafening to her as she stooped her way to the gleaming metallic bumper of the U-Haul. With the hand that wasn't clutched around her knife, she reached out and gently touched it's heated surface, as though there was an alarm or some asinine electric shock system, like that of a fence for cattle (with the way the world was, she wouldn't have been surprised), but nothing happened. 

She exhaled shakily, peering up into the shadowed container with a sense of accomplishment, which was quickly dispersed when she heard the incoming sound of footsteps, voices that increased in volume. In a moment of complete terror, she froze; _run away, get the fuck away_ \- she quickly hoisted herself into the back of a truck, movements stealthy despite the tremor that shook her, the sudden sensation of weakness in her knees. Her knife caught on the latch for the door, pulled from her grasp to land on the asphalt with a clatter. 

_Shit._

"What was that?" 

She whipped her attention around the enclosed space, frantically looking for something, _anything_. The guns caught her attention, quickly disregarded as she thought of the noise, like a beacon it would draw the entire compound down on her. There were cans of food, heavy enough to knock someone out if need be - _but what if there's more than one?_ There were multiple crates, stacked high and pushed almost to the wall. Almost. 

She quickly shucked off her backpack, holding it in her hand as she squeezed herself between the back of truck and the crates. She stuffed her bag down, working it between her feet and when the footsteps grew too loud for comfort, she held her breath and prayed to a God she didn't believe in. 

Through the slats of the uppermost crate, she saw a single man. She watched as he reached down and plucked her knife off the ground, turning it in his hand as though it were a fine diamond beneath a spotlight, the sun catching it's metal surface and reflecting back in just the right way to catch her eyes. She flinched, her knee gently knocking into the crates. The man glanced into the truck, craning his head to and fro as he did, and Lucy swore the sound of her heart could be heard reverberating against the aluminum walls of the container. Time was pulled like a long string from a shirt, stretching on forever and turning those ten seconds of her life into an eternity. 

"Yeah, we got room for a couple of 'em back here." The man suddenly said, jolting Lucy with his suddenness. Curling her fingers, she dug her nails into the palms of her hand and willed herself a statue. 

More footsteps, the sound of voices, annoyed.

"When the fuck did we become house movers - these damn things are gonna end up in a trash pile outside the Sanctuary." One of them said. The man brought up his hand, pointing in their direction with the tip of the blade. 

"Don't let anyone else hear you talkin' like that. It's _him_ teachin' _them_ a lesson, no matter the tools." He informed them, a rough gravel polishing the thick southern lilt in his voice. Taking a long step back from the bumper, he gestured with the knife for them to continue. 

Lucy swallowed thickly, unsure what to anticipate given the context, but as soon as person A came into sight, in his hands one end of a mattress, with person B appearing not long after with the other end, she caught on. They were taking their supplies, like pirates plundering a ship. Her disdain for them increased from a simmer to an outright boil. 

They hoisted the mattress up, sliding it horizontally into the back of the truck and shimmying it close to the crates where she had taken cover. It blocked her in like a cushiony wall . She stayed there, frozen in place and unwilling to risk any modicum of movement as they shoved in three more mattresses, topping off their bounty with another crate, at least, from what she could tell. 

She didn't remember ever feeling quite as claustrophobic as in that moment; the musty scent of the mattresses made it suddenly hard to breathe, the weakness in her knees had returned with a vengeance. With the all encompassing fear of ' _what the hell do I do now'_ like the cherry on top of a big 'ol _deep-shit-sundae,_ the man with her buck knife reached up, grabbed the dangling rope of the door, and pulled. 

Darkness enveloped her, followed by the harrowing sound of engines rumbling beneath her feet and all around her, _giant tri-pod machines with glowing eyes -_ she was in the belly of the beast. 


	4. Full Circle

_"The moment seemed endless, but it was probably only half that."_

― Steve Toltz

* * *

In a moment of self reflection, Lucy stood stock still in her little nook. Wedged between the aluminum wall and the crates, she listened as their contents rattled around, the sound of glass containers clinking together and wood against metal as a lone crate skimmed along the floor with every turn the U-Haul took. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the splintered slats with a sigh. 

_You really did it this time, didn't you?_

She'd taken a one way, all expense paid trip - her destination was a surprise, but she had a feeling it wasn't going to be a beach side resort in the Bahama's. If the locals were anything to go by, it'd be more akin to a dissolute _Disneyland,_ complete with their own lethal-leather-clad _Mickey Mouse_. 

"Fuck." She wanted to laugh at her comparison, and if she weren't knee deep in mortal danger, she would have. Attempting to steady the tremulous pound of her heart, she took another deep breath. 

_Undoubtedly outnumbered, judging by the size of the convoy._

She tugged her lower lip between her teeth and gently knocked her forehead against the crate. The unwelcome sensation of dread began twisting in her gut, spurring her to shift and lean back, resting her head against the cool metal. She felt like crying; her breath hitched in her throat, chest growing tight as her attention flitted around the darkness. She would have slid down and sat, but she was stuck there - trapped in that metal box, shipped off to God knows where. 

She didn't even have her knife, the familiar weight of it in her palm. 

A revelation dawned on her then; she quickly stood straight, rubbing her eyes before peering through the slats. Everything looked obscure, an abyss with jagged, undefined shapes just barely distinguishable with the small sliver of light that seeped in at the bottom of the door. Among the cornucopia she saw the thin barrel of the Remington, it's muzzle poking up and capturing that minute light along it's metallic surface. 

She wasn't sure how long she'd been in the truck, but she moved with an urgency as though it would stop any moment. For all she knew, it would. 

Abandoning her pack by her feet, she twisted at the waist and pushed against the mattress. It was yielding, giving way enough space for her to slip between it and the boxes, the musty scent of them overwhelming as she slithered her way down toward the door. The truck rattled beneath her feet after she breached her way through, the muffled and quickly subsiding growls informing her it wasn't a speed bump they had hit. 

With as much grace as she could muster, she clambered over the supplies, nearly knocking over a crate which voiced it's displeasure with a jarring clank of glass. Lucy was quick to catch it, it's weight almost slipping from her hands as she did. With a shuddering exhale and the burn of sweat in her eyes, she hoisted it back in place. From outside the confines of the truck she heard what she thought to be a gate. Chain link, not hefty metal like the one at Alexandria. Regardless, it had her bristle with a nauseating concoction of terror and anxiety - gates mean compounds. 

_You have arrived at your destination._

Abandoning the crate of glass containers she hastily scanned the surrounding crates, searching for the Remington, and if fate was kind that day, ammunition to go along with it. Once she had it in her sights, she forwent the stealth and clumsily crawled over the containers in her way, boxes and cans digging into her as she stretched her arm out, fingers splayed and desperate. It was cold to the touch, and she lunged out and grabbed it, giving a fierce yank and tugging it free from beneath the pile. Absently, she thought she heard the sound of more walkers.

Bringing the gun close she checked the chamber, squinting against the dark and angling it toward the sliver of light - empty. 

" _No_. No, no, _no_." Growing fretful, she twisted back onto her stomach, laying across the supplies before shoving her hand into the crate which housed the guns, a mad grab for ammo in a box of mystery. The truck had slowed, the squeal of the breaks lighting a fire under her ass. 

"No!" She hissed, hoisting herself up and peering into the crate. It was impossible to make out anything, even with the small bit of light that leaked through. Her hands shook wildly as she scoured through it's contents, the slam of the trucks doors shoving a spike through her brain and seizing her for a moment. 

"You see all that liquor back there? _Gregory_ , y'know, that piss-ant over at Hilltop? He handed it over quicker 'an hell. Thinks playing teachers pet'll keep him in good graces." 

Lucy recognized the gruffness of the voice, it's deep southern twang as the man who had possession of her knife, and he was getting closer. She inhaled sharply, innately holding her breath as she listened for footsteps, and they were there, approaching fast. 

"It's that bottom shelf, _Hankey Bannister_ shit." 

Lucy quickly crawled backwards, keeping the shotgun close as she scanned the truck. There were too many boxes, buried beneath one another and shoved behind the mattresses. Finding ammo for the gun in time was impossible, and as she grit her teeth and swept the back of her hand across her forehead, gathering the sweat that trickled down into her eyes, she caught the caustic reflection of glass. 

The door was yanked open, flooding the U-Haul with light that burned Lucy's eyes. The neck of the bottle was grasped firmly in her sweat slicked palm, fingers tightening and loosening in anticipation as she hunched behind a single crate. Daring a look, she poked her head out from behind her cover and immediately met the gaze of the same man from earlier; his thick brows furrowed as his hand went for his holster. 

"Who the hell are you?" He snarled. 

Lucy quickly sprung to her feet, raising the glass bottle and bringing it down onto the crown of his head with enough force that it shattered to pieces on contact. The liquid splashed on the ground around him as she caught her balance on one of the crates, almost toppling over and out. Near comically the man teetered on his feet with a blank stare, then promptly and stiff as a board landed on his back. 

The commotion that followed was instantaneous - confused and angry shouts, the sound of boots against ground with the force of a herd. Lucy quickly twisted around and grabbed another bottle, pulling it from the crate with a clean clink before gearing up for another strike. She was trembling, chalk full of adrenaline and the outlandish idea that she could take them on with an arsenal of bottom shelf liquor. 

Slowly, another figure rounded the back of the truck. Dirty blonde, shoulder length hair bordered an angled face, which was rippled and marred in a a quarter mask of heavy scarring. His deep set eyes narrowed as he approached, a quick flit of his attention as he sized her up. 

"Why don't you come on down from there, and we can talk this out?" His mild voice both eased her and added suspicion. With a flick of the gun he gestured her down, Lucy faltering as from her bordered view she saw a handful of men close in. "Trust me when I say _listening_ is your best option, right now." He tacked on with a subtle nod of his head. 

"H-How do I know you're not gonna shoot me here and now?" She countered with a borderline shout, lifting the bottle as gravity and hesitance had pulled it to her side. She raised her chin as she did, keeping herself tall. The blonde steadied his gun in response. 

"Not our call. You're not gonna get shot unless you try somethin' stupid. Now c'mon - get out of the truck before our patience wears thin." The thinly veiled threat was clear as day, the now multiple guns pointed in her direction a fine motivator. 

She kept her guard up high as she absently tossed the bottle into one of the crates, raising her hands before clambering over the supplies and hopping off the back of the truck. Her boots made contact with a crunch, eyes flicking over the small horde of men that had her surrounded. Blondie circled her, keeping his SIG pinpointed to her head before coming to a stop behind her. Lacking in couth, he kicked the back of her knee and pressed the barrel against her skull, forcing her to a kneel. 

"All the way. Both knees on the ground." 

Lucy exhaled with a shudder, closing her eyes solemnly and tucking her other leg beneath her. The gravel dug into her skin through the weathered fabric of her jeans, the muzzle of the gun felt cold and sharp. She knew enough to recognize an execution position when she saw one - she just never thought she'd be on the receiving end. 

"The hell are you waitin' for? Get to unloading!" His voice shouted behind her. She flinched, suppressed the instinct to whimper, and forced herself to breathe. Lucy didn't fail to see the disappointed side glances the men had shared as they tucked their guns back into their respective holsters. 

"What happens now?" She managed. 

"Like I said, not up to us." He replied. 

"Then who?" No answer, although she had an inkling. 

Her arms were starting to tire, the ache snowballing into a full body exhaustion. She hadn't realized how tired she was, the adrenaline that had her ready to fight an army fading fast. Blondie shuffled behind her and she heard the empty static of a walkie-talkie. 

"We got a stowaway, Negan. Guessin' we picked her up from Alexandria. Knocked Jacob out clean with a bottle a' that shit we got from Hilltop." He kept it short, curt in a way. She was immediately under the impression this _Negan_ was the head-honcho. A relapse of fear itched at her when she remembered the night in the woods, the brutality of it all. 

The gruff voice that crackled in on the other end sounded amused, " _She?_ Well, sounds like an _interesting_ fuckin' lady. But, uh, how the _hell_ 'd you miss someone climbing into the back of my goddamn truck, _Dwighty boy?"_

Dwight, as she assumed his name was, shifted behind her. A tense silence fell then, the gun pressing a little harder against the back of her skull. 

"It was a mistake, won't happen again. She must've climbed in when we were doing our rounds. Do you..." He tightened his grip on the gun, "Do you want me to take care of her?" 

Lucy stiffened, her throat tight. 

"Hell no! Seems like we got quite the _badass_ on our hands! How's about you bring her up? Let me get a look at this _Rambo-ass_ _chick_ , see what we're workin' with. Pour her a glass of the good shit while you're at it." 

Her breath of relief was unmistakable, shoulders dropping and spine loosening. 

"On your feet, now." Dwight nudged the gun against her head. "Best hope he takes a liking to you." 

* * *

The warehouse was massive, surrounded by a tall chain link fence sporting a spiraling crown of barbed wire, an assortment of walkers pinned to it's structure like rotting ornaments. Lucy eyed the undead skewered to the fence with revulsion, their jaws snapping and their growls feral. Some of them had torn in half at the waist, seeping internal organs down into a puddle to join their legs. She would have described it as barbaric, but the word didn't seem apt enough. 

Dwight led her around the warehouse, guiding her way with the unpleasant bite of metal against her head and the low vocalization of ' _turn here_ ' and ' _up the stairs_ ', every so often. They made their way through the bleak hallways, and if it weren't for the muffled voices (and by the sound of them, there were a lot), she would have thought the warehouse devoid. Their footsteps meeting the concrete echoed along the way, adding to the desolate atmosphere. 

"Stop here." Dwight stepped beside her, pressing the gun against her temple. Rusted out double doors laid entrance to their destination. Dwight reached forward to turn the handle, and with no amount of fanfare he pushed it open. It creaked in it's hinges, swaying back as he gave a jut of his chin, gesturing her inside. Lucy eyed him warily. 

"You don't have to make this harder than it needs to be. _Go on."_

She wanted to bite back with some vitriolic remark, but the words were trapped behind her grit teeth. Lucy straightened her spine, glanced at Dwight's marred face once more, and crossed the threshold. 

Inside was an office; nothing decedent, but in surprisingly good condition. A large metal desk caught her attention, on either side two leather lounge chairs. It's surface was clean say for a single, large glass decanter filled halfway with amber. There was a massive bookshelf on the right, and a towering filing cabinet on the left. Light flooded in from the sprawling grid window, basking the cold interior with the warm hue of orange. Dwight tapped the SIG between her shoulder blades. 

"Sit down." 

Lucy glanced from her peripheral, taking note of another door to her right. Where it opened to was a mystery, but she kept it in her line of sight as she rounded the chair and slowly eased herself down. Dwight walked past her, his gun lowered for the first time since they met as he approached the filing cabinet. 

"It's a dead end, wouldn't try it if I were you." He informed her casually. Lucy's eyes darted from the door to Dwight, scrutinizing. Dwight crouched down and opened what looked to be a mini fridge, hidden behind the cabinet. 

"From my perspective, this whole place is a _dead_ _end."_ She hissed. 

"Not if you got the right mindset, it ain't. Looking for an escape route every ten seconds sure ain't it, though." He pulled out a glass, three ice cubes clinking around as he stood up and set it on the desk before her. She exhaled deeply through her nose, fingers digging into the arm rests of her chair as she watched Dwight pull the cap off the decanter and fill the glass half empty. 

" _People are a resource_ , he says. I guess the real question is, what kinda resources can you bring to the table?" Dwight asked, capping the decanter and setting it down. She glared at him beneath her brows.

_People are a resource. Where was that slogan when Bryce and the others were hunted down like fucking animals and bludgeoned to death?_

"Don't try anything. Stay here and wait. _Have a drink."_ Dwightgestured to the glass as he walked past her, before bringing his hand to her shoulder. She flinched away, her nails threatened to break against the leather upholstery. "You'll probably need it." 

With that, he left. The door closed behind him with a hollow slam, and she was left to stare at the amber liquid alone - for now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n - woo, if you've made it this far than you're a trooper! I know the first few chapters are slow going, but I wanted to establish the story a bit instead of jumping right into Negan's world. We're coming back to the big bad in the next chapter, and as always, feedback is so greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading!


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